


Move Your Dead Bones

by Tazzy_Ladynero



Category: Diablo III, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Crazy Castiel, F/F, F/M, Gen, NO real relationships on screen, NaNoWriMo 2017, Some spoilers for the Witcher, Spoilers for Diablo 3 storyline, some FemSlash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-05-04 00:15:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14580762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tazzy_Ladynero/pseuds/Tazzy_Ladynero
Summary: Witcher Geralt of Rivia and his apprentice, Ciri, are hired to track down someone causing trouble and raising the dead. When the trail leads them into the country of Sanctuary, they know their troubles are just starting, because unlike Temeria, Sanctuary has demons! They run into their first problems in the little town of New Tristram and a group of traveling heroes known as the Nephilim. This odd group are hunting the one who is raising the dead and disrupting the lives of the people. Have the two targets joined forces or is there only one target still?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was created for a NaNoWriMo challenge to write an Urban Fantasy so I took my two favorite supernatural video games and mashed them together. There will be a few plot spoilers for gameplay, most specifically for Diablo 3, so if you don't want spoilers, I'd suggest you don't read.

The night started like any other in the small town of Chorac with the sounds of children laughing as they were called in for dinner, a few outraged shrieks as a stray animal startled someone, and the creeping darkness that brought with it the buzzing of mosquitoes, hoots of owls, and flapping of bats as they emerged for the night. Cars traveled from work to home, or for the unlucky few, from home to work, and overall, it was a mostly serene and very suburban atmosphere that so many were use to that they completely ignored as “boring” and “normal”.

No one noticed the clouds roll in rather quickly when it became full dark, but everyone noticed the strange, unseasonal chill that filled the air. Windows were closed as people started shivering and reaching for sweatshirts or sweaters before they put it out of their minds, returning to their normal lives. Fog started rising to fill the streets, thick and heavy as the cold air met the summer hot ground, and a few of the businesses that had remained open late decided to close as no one was out on the streets. The fog brought with it a strange feeling that had nothing to do with the temperature drop, and doors were locked and double checked by nervous people, and soon the fog was so thick, people were told to shelter where they were, be they at work or home. Those caught outside on the streets carefully made their way back to their houses where they locked themselves in and vowed to not move until the strange weather had stopped.

Ebra Richardson was quietly swearing to herself as she crept through the fog choked streets in her modified Hummer. It had been a military surplus purchase that she had invested her time and skill in fixing up into the mostly comfortable ride it was now with bench seats, surround sound with bluetooth speakers and microphone for her cell phone hookup, and best of all, a front dash camera because sometimes she saw the damnedest things and no one believed her without proof despite the fact she was employed as a scout for the town council to ensure none of the local beasties decided to make an easy meal out of any of the outlying houses or cause any other troubles that would require them to hire the expensive but very well trained and prepared Witchers to deal with it. The council always bitched and moaned whenever it was talked about bringing a Witcher in because the first thing they wanted to do was raise taxes instead of use the discretionary funds that were put aside for just such an occasion, which made Ebra wonder just what was going on with those specific funds. Personally, she suspected someone was skimming when they shouldn’t be, and should a Witcher be called in, the theft of the funds would be discovered.

_ Cheap ass bastards are probably taking their secretaries to the coast for so-called vacations where they screw their brains out in between getting stinking ass drunk, _ she thought, a dark frown on her face as she carefully turned down Cemetery Road, all too aware of the various animals that enjoyed jumping out in front of vehicles as they raced through and out of the large cemetery that was on the edge of Chorac. Several accidents had happened along this road from a deer suddenly bolting out into the street or someone swerving to avoid a stray cat or raccoon.  _ Meanwhile, I’m out here risking my life and sacrificing my sleep on minimum wage. Volunteer job my ass! _

Something dark loomed out of the darkness, and she slammed on her breaks, her startled scream adding to the shriek of her tires suddenly locking up as they skidded along the asphalt. There was no sound of impact so she knew she hadn’t hit anything, and so she took a few moments to swear as she forced her racing heart to calm down from the adrenaline spike. When she opened her eyes, she stared at the thing that was now illuminated by her headlights and felt her blood run cold.

Standing before her hummer was the half decayed body of someone, possibly male if the ratty clothes that were tattered and worn, barely clinging to the body and was probably the only thing that was holding some of the bits and pieces onto the bony frame that was peeking through more than one bit of decayed flesh and muscle. As she stared at the one, she realized there were other shapes lumbering through the fog. 

Emerging from the cemetery.

Baring her teeth to keep from screaming in fear, she slammed her foot down on the gas, and the powerful engine roared as the hummer jumped forward, plowing into the zombie that was in front of her and the half a dozen beyond that. She managed to keep driving down the street, ignoring the gore that streaked the hood of her hummer as well as some of the dents she had from the impacts.

“Call 911!” she shouted at her cellphone, and there was a couple of clicks before a calm, male voice picked up.

“911, what’s your emergency?” 

“This is Scout Ebra Richardson for Chorac,” she announced, her voice slightly loud from her fear. “The local cemetery is moving!”

“I’m sorry, Scout Richardson, could you please clarify,” requested the emergency operator, sounding a bit confused. “Our records show that the cemetery is on very shallow hills. Is there a landslide or sinkhole happening?”

“No, you damn bastard!” she shrieked, her fear getting the better of her common sense as she sped off into the fog. “The dead are rising!”

 

***

 

A frown on his rugged features, Geralt of Rivia carefully moved closer to the large burn mark on the grass. Behind him, he could hear Ciri following on nearly silent feet, and he would remind her yet again that heeled boots did not make for good hunting shoes. Why she insisted on wearing those ridiculous things, even with those thicker heels, was beyond him. Give him a set of steel toed construction boots that were guaranteed to take out teeth with a kick instead of break his toes.

He shook his head and focused back on the charred circle in front of him. It was obviously the location of the ritual that had brought Chorac Cemetery to life a few days ago, located in the very center of the gravestones, and his wolf medallion was faintly vibrating on his chest in reaction to the lingering magic there. A flicker of brilliant blue caught his eye, and he crouched down, carefully brushing some ashes aside with a gloved finger to reveal a butterfly wing. It was almost iridescent blue with a couple of bright purple dots along the edge where the blue changed to black. Next to it was a small broken glass bottle with part of a charred label still attached to it.

“Ciri,” he called, motioning her over to him, and she moved over to crouch next to him, somehow balancing in those ridiculous boots of hers. “When are you going to get sensible boots and save the heels for dates?”

“When you actually let me go on a date, or I find someone willing to brave your grumpy bear attitude to actually ask me out on one,” she countered with a small smirk before looking at the ashes. “What did you find?”

He pointed at the butterfly wing even as he picked up the bottle, turning it over in his hands to examine the label. He was just able to make out W-E-S H-O-L on the paper before he grunted in irritation and held it out to her, wondering if she would make the connection yet wishing he was wrong. He really hated heading south.

“I don’t recognize this species,” confessed Ciri, gently picking up the butterfly wing and turning it over in her fingers. Without speaking, Geralt handed over the broken bottle, and she frowned at the label. He watched her lips move as she said the letters there, a frown of concentration on her face, and he smirked as her aqua green eyes suddenly lit up with recognition. “Westmarch Holy water!”

“The butterfly is a species known as a Caldeum nightshade,” Geralt lectured, rising to his feet and brushing his hands off on his legs. Leather chaps over jeans made for pretty good armor when also paired with a heavy leather coat, but they were a headache to get clean when he had been rolling around in the mud fighting a monster of some sort. “They’re known for their magical properties, and used by both mages and craftsmen to enhance their abilities.”

“That means the necromancer originally came from Sanctuary,” concluded Ciri, tucking both the butterfly wing and the broken bottle into a pouch at her waist that would keep them safe. They were evidence after all. She looked around at the torn up graves that had only been halfway filled back in. “Does that mean they’re heading back there for more supplies? And what’s their goal?”

Geralt didn’t say anything as he headed back to his Ford F-150 pickup, and he dropped the tailgate, revealing a sort of mobile outpost tucked under the metal camper top in the cargo area. He hauled himself up easily before pulling out a map of Temeria and Sanctuary, and he turned to settle it on the flat board of the tailgate. Pulling a pen out of his pocket, he carefully marked the Chorac Cemetery as close to the center as he could before grabbing a ruler. Ciri wandered over to watch, curious, but at least she wasn’t griping about the old fashioned techniques in this age of computers and microchips. She had hopefully learned that not everything could be solved with a microprocessor.

Carefully lining up Chorac plus the other three towns that had also been subject to their cemetery residents suddenly going for a walk to terrorize their former neighbors, Geralt drew a straight line through them before continuing that line down through the border and into Sanctuary. It was obvious that whomever was doing this was looking to slow down anyone trying to follow them because each town had to not only be investigated to see if it was linked to the previous one but the restless dead also had to be put down to keep from drawing worse things, like monsters that ate carrion.

“There’s no towns between here and the border,” Geralt stated, tapping the map as Ciri peered down at the stark black line. “As it is, the next town of any size on this path is New Tristram in Sanctuary.” He sighed and threw the pen down in an obvious show of frustration. “I hate dealing with demons.”

“Think we might get lucky and catch this person before they hit the border?” Ciri asked, a hopeful note in her voice as Geralt folded up the map, sliding out of the back of the truck with it in his hands.

He tossed her a bitter look. “And Triss will stop trying to save the world using Witcher secrets,” he countered, almost enjoying the wrinkled nose of distaste he got back from her. Triss Merigold was a good sorceress but she was also a bleeding heart who believed that the key to saving the world lay in the elixirs and potions the Witchers used to fight monsters as well as change their own mutated biology. Every time she showed up at Kaer Morhen, Vesemir always double checked that the potion laboratory was locked and no one went in and out without one of the Witchers with them. Honestly, if they didn’t occasionally need the magic support, Geralt was sure that Vesemir would simply wash his hands of all magic users and bar them from Kaer Morhen. He slammed the tailgate closed and made sure it was locked before starting for the cab. “Come on, we need to talk to the mayor before packing it in.”

Nodding, Ciri moved around to the front cab, shrugging off the twin swords across her back. While not a full Witcher yet as she hadn’t gone through the Trial of Grasses, she had progressed far enough for field work which had earned her the right to carry the silver and the steel swords. Geralt wasn’t going to tell her just yet that this was her last field assignment as an apprentice. Vesemir had approached him before they left about  arranging for Ciri’s trial when they wrapped this up, believing it to be a simple matter of a young necromancer with more power than brains and a grudge against someone for some minor slight. 

Shrugging out of his own sword harness, Geralt easily caught the blades up in one hand as he climbed up in the driver’s seat, tucking the blades next to Ciri’s own on the back of the bench seat. He started the engine with a loud rumble of power, and a small smile curled his lips. He had to admit that there was just something really nice about having that much horsepower under the hood. Shifting into gear, he started out of the cemetery, being very careful of the various ruts and holes that littered the ground between the tombstones and mausoleums. 

“Gonna call Vesemir?” asked Ciri, glancing at him as Geralt turned out of the desecrated land and onto the well paved road heading back into town. “Let him know it looks like we’re heading to Sanctuary?”

Geralt rested his left arm on the window, easily steering the powerful truck with one hand. “Give him a call since you have hands free,” he ordered. “Put it on speaker so we can both hear.”

She nodded, digging out her phone and punching in a number long since memorized. Neither of them had the number to Kaer Morhen’s direct phone line programmed into their cell phones in case they were lost or lifted. There was a public number that anyone could use to get in touch with the Witchers of Kaer Morhen if they didn’t use the web page and e-mail first, but the number all Witchers memorized was the one that connected directly to Vesemir’s personal phone.

“Catch that necromancer yet, Geralt?” Vesemir asked as soon as he picked up the phone.

“They’re apparently heading back to Sanctuary,” Geralt announced, smirking at Ciri even as he started a mental countdown to when the Head Watcher of Kaer Morhen actually heard what he had said.

“Well at least there won’t be any problem heading…. “ Geralt bit his lip to keep from laughing as Vesemir suddenly squawked. “What do you mean  _ back?” _

“Just that,” Ciri stated, punching Geralt’s arm as he stopped at a red light. “There was a wing from a Caldeum nightshade butterfly and a broken bottle of Westmarch holy water at the latest site. Also, from what Geralt can figure out, if they follow the line on the map, their next stop is New Tristram.”

“Have you managed to get a picture of this person yet?” sighed Vesemir, sounding tired, and Geralt wondered if there were more jobs coming in than when they had left.

“The sheriff is pulling video at all four of the gas stations in town to see if there’s any familiar faces,” Geralt stated. “The other two towns were a wash as no one stepped into the store itself or were in clear range of the cameras they had focused on their pumps.”

“Damn Sanctuary,” grumbled Vesemir. “Why do they have to cause so much trouble for honest folk?”

“I’d suggest contacting a Priest of Rathma to make sure none of these places have a resurgence of restless dead,” Geralt remarked, ignoring that remark even though he had to wonder the same thing. 

A world weary sigh came back, and Geralt felt a chill run down his spine. “Their main temple was attacked two days ago, and most of the High Priests were killed, buying time for the acolytes and lower priests to get out with all of their tomes,” Vesemir confessed, his voice tired. “I don’t know if these two events are connected, but I only heard back from the highest ranking priest at their back up location when he called back in regards to the request I sent for assistance.”

“Damn. That will make things even more complicated to help these people,” Geralt grumbled, frowning hard as he thought. The Priests of Rathma were trained at an early age to maintain what they called the Balance which was essentially the living eventually die and the dead nurture the living. “Any way for  _ any _ of them to come help? Maybe if we offered them crash space until they got back on their feet?”

“They said they’d try to send someone, but to not get our hopes up,” Vesemir stated. “So, do what you can to settle the dead even if you’re crushing them under Roach to keep them from moving again or taking them out with a baseball bat. Then get on that necromancer’s trail and stop him so we can collect our fee.”

“Don’t talk about my truck like that,” huffed Geralt, throwing a dark look at the phone. “Roach has gone a lot of miles with me and helped me out of several tight spots.”

“Normally when he has to leave suddenly due to an angry husband or boyfriend,” teased Ciri, and Geralt pointed a warning finger at her. He wasn’t one that would deliberately make a move on a married woman or one who was attached, because that just led to so many issues that he didn’t want to deal with, plus a couple of people who had tried to declare some baby was his whenever everyone and their cousin knew Witchers were infertile.

“Not my fault some of those women are less than honest,” Geralt stated with a shrug and a touch of smug pride. “Some just can’t resist me.”

“Which is why you have a discount at the local house of ill repute near Kaer Morhan,” taunted Ciri with a smirk and a toss of her head that sent her silver hair out of her face.

“Enough. I don’t need to hear about Geralt’s sordid adventures,” grumbled Vesemir, sounding greatly put upon. “Especially since Yennifer was rumored to be in the area. Less I know about you, the less she can worm out of me so she has an excuse to be mad at you.”

“Or she’ll inflict more stuffed unicorns on me,” grumbled Geralt, glaring at the small beanie baby that was laying on his dash. He honestly wanted to toss it out the window, but he had the strange feeling that if he did, Yennifer would find some way to magic it back into his truck after giving him hell. “We’ll call again when we have something more or at least a destination in Sanctuary.”

“Be safe, Wolf and you too, Cub. Demons are much more nasty than any beastie you’ve gone up against,” Vesemir stated before hanging up. Geralt shook his head at the fond nicknames Vesemir had settled on them as it was his way of saying he cared. For as long as Geralt had been a full Witcher, he had been called the White Wolf, and when he had taken on Ciri, his Surprise Child twice over, Vesemir had teased him about getting a cub, which stuck the young and rather excitable girl with that particular nickname.

“Let’s see if the sheriffs had more luck than us,” he remarked, turning down another road. He really hoped there was something before they hauled it down to Sanctuary to deal with that particular brand of crazy. He was probably going to have to buy all new clothes by the time they were done because demon blood reeked of sulfur and was impossible to get out of leather.

Being the polite individual that he was, Geralt was going to let Ciri find that out on her own.

 

***

 

“His name is Azar Javed, and at first look, he’s a small time thug wanted in regards to a string of robberies and other headaches for the police of Vizima,” drawled Franklin Bradford, sheriff of Chorac as he dropped some pictures pulled off of the slightly grainy video feed. “Her name is Adria, no known last name, or at least none on record for her. Last known address was a shack on the outskirts of Tristram before they had that demon problem destroy the town.”

He eyed both of them, and Ciri could almost hear the next words out of his mouth as she felt his eyes linger on her chest when she reached over to pick up the pictures off the table. He was pushing sixty if it was a day, and his gun belt was slung underneath the beer gut that showed he preferred lifting a can of beer and the occasional doughnut to actually getting out behind his desk to work. Absently she wondered if him delivering the pictures personally was suppose to impress them somehow.

“You sure you wanna go after someone like Azar Javed, little lady?”

She smiled at him and fluttered her lashes, getting a slight blush on the overweight sheriff’s face before she spoke. “You sure you wanna insult a Witcher by calling her ‘little lady’?” she asked sweetly, causing him to splutter and verbally try to backpedal, but she took the satisfaction in knowing he wasn’t staring at her chest any longer. She frowned at the picture that showed a dark skinned man with a wide variety of facial piercings and dressed in ragged clothing that looked like he was determined to wear them until they fell off his body and a pale skinned woman with a cloth tied over her dark hair and wearing a sort of stereotypical New Age witch’s outfit of broom skirt, loose blouse, sash, and lots of bangles. “Are you sure they’re working together? She looks like someone who runs a New Age store that is more dried herbs and crystal power than anyone raising a cemetery.”

“According to Strawberry Fields, the girl that was working the counter, they were arguing on whether they had time to get something to eat at the gas station’s attached diner,” Bradford offered, looking at Geralt as if he ignored Ciri long enough, she wouldn’t get the chance to get another point made against him. “Azar Javed wanted to take his time and sit down to eat something that wasn’t drive thru while Adria pointed out that they had a limited time to get to their destination or the timing would be ruined.” He shook his head. “She won by the way. They were there long enough to get take out, pay for their gas, and hit the bathrooms.”

“What can you tell us about Azar Javed?” Geralt asked, frowning down at the pictures as if they held the key to the motives behind the two, and Ciri wasn’t so certain that he couldn’t tell their motives. There was so much that Geralt knew that came from simply experience, and in a way Ciri resented him for that because it always made her feel like she’s playing catch up and will never be ready for her Trial of Grasses. She knew half the apprentices at Kaer Morhan had taken their Trials already, but none of them were Geralt of Rivia’s apprentice as so many were quick to point out. More was expected of her because of who her teacher was, and she honestly hoped that this hunt would prove that she was ready for her Trials.

“He’s associated with a criminal organization called Salamandras, or the Salamanders,” Bradford reported, pulling out a folder and flipping it open. “No one’s sure just how high up in the chain of command he is or if he’s just an out runner for them. Someone loosely connected on the edges but who enjoys the connection and perks being connected offers.” He shrugged. “Salamandras seems to do a little of everything; protection, gambling, underground fight clubs, drugs, B&E, theft, prostitution...  you name it, they’ve either dabbled in it, work in it, or mastered it. One of their number went away for impersonating a cop and shaking down other gangs for protection money.”

“Protection from who?” asked Geralt, and Ciri shook her head, wondering how  _ that _ little scam was pulled off.

“The cops if you can believe it,” Bradford drawled, shaking his head. “Apparently, they paid the fake cop so much money for an operating license that would supposedly allow the gang to work as they wanted without fear of being arrested and hassled by the cops.”

“Working with some real geniuses there,” chuckled Ciri, her admiration of the fake cop going up. “How many gangs did he manage to con before they clued in on him?”

“A dozen in different parts of the city,” huffed Bradford, and Ciri burst out laughing. A dozen? Someone was definitely looking out for him to get away with swindling that many gangs out of their money before they clued in on it. “Azar Javed has been seen at various crimes, and let’s face it, he’s rather remarkable with that face full of metal, but no one’s been able to lay hands on him. The few that got close…” He shrugged. “I understand they had nice funerals.”

_ Right, don’t let Azar Javed get his hands on me, at least without not making him completely regret it, _ Ciri decided as she sobered some. “Any information on Adria formerly of Tristram?”

“She was a quiet almost reclusive before Tristram fell and Mount Arreat blew its top,” Bradford stated, briefly glancing at her. “The she just sorta vanished. Someone went to her shack and reported that it looked like she packed a few things and left for whatever reason. Rumor she was a witch, might have had a kid but there’s no official record. No criminal record, no known relatives, and basically, just seems like the local crazy cat lady.”

“Except she seems to have a taste for men with enough metal to open their own jewelry stores,” countered Geralt before glancing at Ciri. She nodded and gathered up the pictures, shuffling through them until she found the one that showed Adria and Azar Javed best. They would take that with them and hopefully someone would remember those two. If nothing else, they might be able to run down Azar Javed and find Adria that way. If she was an actual witch, she wouldn’t be able to fire spells off at the drop of the hat. 

Witches’ spells required time, ingredients, and preparation to set in motion, like tossing a snowball onto snow to create an avalanche. With enough time and foreknowledge, a person could theoretically escape a witch’s spell, but if someone didn’t know it was coming, they were going to be hit by it. On the other hand, those who could manipulate arcane energy could toss spells around with very little preparation and warning, causing much more instant damage until they ran out of energy. Much like firing a gun, devastating and instant but with limited ammunition.

Climbing back into Geralt’s truck, Ciri settled back in the seat and frowned at the picture in her hand. With Adria coming from Sanctuary, she was the obvious reason the Caldeum nightshade and the Westmarch holy water was at the scene of the latest cemetery walk about, but why did she come for Azar Javed in Temeria? Or had he summoned her from Sanctuary? And why were they raising cemeteries behind them? Well the obvious answer for that last question was a distraction. It kept them busy investigating each one while letting them get farther and farther ahead. But why? No one was actually hunting them until now. Well aside from various law enforcement agencies that might want to either talk or capture them.

“What possible connection could these two have?” she asked as Geralt climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine. “She’s a witch whose spells take time to set up and comes from Sanctuary.” She shook her head. “Somehow I sincerely doubt she’s looking to con some demons out of their money.”

“Maybe she needs his knowledge and expertise in one of the various criminal actions for something in Sanctuary,” suggested Geralt, glancing over at her. 

Her frown deepened at that, but it was more thoughtful than irritated. That did make sense but… “Wouldn’t it have been easier to find someone willing to help her in Sanctuary?” she asked, thinking out loud. “It would have been undoubtedly easier because she wouldn’t have had to risk a border crossing, so there has to be something special about Azar Javed that had her come all the way to Vizima, risking various beasts and back roads for no guarantee success in gaining his help.” 

A sudden thought struck her, and she looked at Geralt, eyes slightly wide. “Unless she also plans on escaping back to Temeria to hide from the fallout of whatever she has planned and wants to use Azar javed as a sort of passport to slide into the criminal underground where they might be able to use her knowledge and abilities.”

“And Azar Javed?” asked Geralt, a small smile on his face that she always knew meant he was proud of her deduction. It was one of the reasons why she had gotten into the habit of thinking out loud. 

“There’s obviously something of value in Sanctuary, perhaps even in the same spot her target is that is valuable enough to tempt him to risk demons, quill fiends, and the other nasties that call Sanctuary home,” she stated. “Someone with a record like his, it has to be something that can only be found in Sanctuary to get him to head south of the border. And circumstances ensure that he has to go there personally to get it or he would just contact someone to bring it back to him without risking his own hide.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He’s egotistical but not suicidal,” she countered. “Why else would he have such distinct jewelry? He  _ wants _ to be seen and have it know he did such a thing. He might have engineered that entire argument just so they were noticed and identified later after the cemetery exodus.” She tugged off her gloves and dropped them in her lap as she tugged the tie out of her hair, letting the thick braid her silver hair was caught up in to fall over her shoulder. It always amused her how many people thought that Geralt was her father because their hair color matched, and it wasn’t until they saw his golden eyes with their slit pupils that they realized exactly what they were looking at wasn’t a father and daughter.

“How do you figure he’s not suicidal?” Geralt inquired, briefly glancing over at her before returning his attention to the road. “Seems pretty suicidal to me since he was willing to argue with a woman that he is traveling with for days.”

“I’m sure that’s something you figured out the last time you traveled with Yennifer,” Ciri replied with a small smirk, getting the faintest of flinches from Geralt. It was always amusing to needle him about his relationship with the sorceress, and she stretched as best as she could  in the seat. “He always has a way out of whatever he happens to be involved in or he would have been caught before now, and he isn’t afraid to kill to get out either. He’s also never officially become part of the Salamandras, which means he can deny all knowledge of them should the situation require it.” 

“Very good and well thought out,” Geralt said, and Ciri smiled, a thrill of pleasure and delight running through her at the praise. “We’ll be sure to ask him if he’s suicidal when we catch up with him and drag him back to Vesima.” He jerked his chin towards her. “It’s gonna be a few hours to the border. Get your netbook out and get familiar with Sanctuary.”

Rolling her eyes, Ciri reached down for the bag at her feet and dug through it before hauling out the small, cheap looking netbook and booting it up. Every file that was there was just a travel book on various destinations that anyone could pick up from any travel agency. Of course, hers had some extras added to them in the form of Witcher specific notes that remarked on the strengths and weaknesses of various monsters and beasts. There were even a couple of books written by someone named Abd al-Hazir who claimed to be a traveling scholar. Shaking her head at the flowery descriptions, Ciri settled in for the long trip.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More people enter the chase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies to those who thought this was a one-shot. I forgot to check the multiple chapter option. Also the culture of Xiansai I have completely made up.

Slowly, the dark green snake slid towards it’s target, the red tongue flicking out to taste the air as the scaled form moved over decayed leaves and fallen branches. Onyx black eyes glittered as its mouth opened to reveal a set of curved and deadly fangs, and it lunged with a slight hiss, sinking needle sharp fangs into the latex that coated the top of the vial. Dark fingers reached down and gently massaged the snake’s head, coaxing more venom out until the snake pulled back with an almost disgruntled hiss and flick of its tongue. There was a chuckle and a dead mouse was dangled in front of the snake, dancing a little before the snake lunged for it, sinking depleted fangs into the fur and pulling it down to the ground.

“Good girl,Sahs,” crooned an accented voice as a dark finger stroked down the scaled back. “Jineshi will be back later to collect more in exchange for a treat.”

With a slight huff, Malafar of the Jade Flame looked up from his grimoire, his pen poised above the snow white rice paper that was already partially stained with black ink. “One of these days, your snake is going to bite you instead of the vial, and none of us will be able to save you.”

Jineshi chuckled as he turned away from fitting the lid back on the terrarium that contained the deadly snake he had brought with him from his home in the Torajan Jungle to the south east. “Ah, Sahs won’t bite Jineshi at least not beyond a little love bite to remind him who is the deadlier between us,” he remarked, gathering up the vial and screwing a cap onto it securely. Eyes white with cataracs turned to gaze at the wizard, and Malafar met that blind gaze with a casual ease. “Besides, Sahs is too well mannered to bite any of Jineshi’s friends. She might find that the raven is more deadly than her still.”

Malafar smirked at the thought and inclined his head, accepting the compliment for what it was. It was nice to be considered deadlier than one of the most poisonous serpents in Sanctuary. “I had better not tell my concubine that. She may not wish to speak to me any longer as she has a fear of snakes.”

“Not your wife?” drawled a female voice as Victoria Desmond entered the room with her black wolf, Malthael, silently padding along beside her. 

“My wife is undoubtedly more deadly than pretty little Sahs and twice as cold blooded,” countered Malafar with a slight gesture towards the terrarium where the green snake was in the process of enjoying its meal of a mouse. “There is a reason she is ruling the Great House of the Verdant Flames at my father’s right hand until our son is of an age to take his spot.”

Burning red eyes stared at him from an attractive pale face, and Malafar wondered if he might have tried to take the demon hunter for a concubine if he had not fallen for his sweet Kaercie. His marriage was purely political to ally his Great House with another while continuing the bloodlines while his relationship with Kaercie Mosswhisper was one born out of love and mutual respect. It was not unknown for the children of the Greater Families in Xiansai to have a loveless political marriage with a very much loved concubine on the side. As long as the concubine wasn’t of an equal rank or from a political enemy, there never was any trouble.

“How was your last hunt?” inquired Malafar, pulling his thoughts away from his sweet Kaercie to focus on his teammate as the barbarian known as Crunch lumbered into the room. “Send any more demons to the hereafter?”

“Of course,” Victoria stated, folding herself into a chair before Malthael sat down next to her and dropped his head in her lap, the chain collar clinking with the movement. A tiny smile touched her red lips as she dropped a hand onto his head and scratched his ears, getting a small whine of delight from the wolf. “It was only a small band of imps who were making trouble for a farmer and sending his wife into fits. My clan was informed and they will send a few initiates to see if there are any further troubles nearby, but I am confident that I cleaned out the nest.”

Crunch chuckled and stretched, seeming to fill the room with his sheer size. “The Wolf Clan would be delighted to help out should your clan wish it,” he rumbled, scratching his grey beard. Crunch was the oldest barbarian that Malafar had ever seen as the members of the barbarian clans prefer to seek death in a glorious battle than die of old age in their beds. Crunch was the only one Malafar had ever seen with age lines and naturally grey hair, not to mention enough scars to make him seem to be more scar tissue than actual skin. “Some of the youngsters are starting to make grumbling noises about cutting their teeth on something worthy of their blades.”

“Somehow I doubt a bunch of imps would be much of a challenge for them, but I shall pass along your offer,” mused Victoria before she straightened as a tall, broad shouldered man entered the room, the light shining off his dark, bald head. Malafar straightened and closed his grimoire, tucking his pen away as well as he focused on the new arrival. He was peripherally aware of the other three straightening as well as Tyrael the head of the Horadrim moved to the center of the room. 

“Unfortunately, you’re not going to have much of a chance for personal missions for a while,” apologized Tyrael as he picked up a remote and pushed a button, causing a flat screen television to flare to life. “The Horadrim has received a very unusual request for information from a law enforcement agency in Temeria about an old friend of ours.”

Malafar frowned, trying to wrack his brain on who they knew that could possibly be in Temeria which seemed even more crazy than Sanctuary’s usual brand of crazy. They may have to deal with demons but at least they didn’t have to worry about chimeras or swamp hags. He nearly came out of his seat when an unwelcome face appeared on the screen, and he did hear a low growl coming from Victoria, or maybe her wolf he wasn’t sure, as the demon hunter spat a single name.

“Adria!”

“She’s been seen in the company of one Azar Javed, a wanted criminal in Vesima,” Tyrael stated, sounding calm but Malafar knew that he was not unaffected by the idea of that thrice cursed witch appearing back on their radar. All of them wished to see how well her head would look on a pike for what she did to innocent Leah and her uncle, Deckard Cain. “It is suspected that one or both of them are behind the three towns’ worth of graveyards that rose to terrorize those that lived there.”

Crunch frowned and crossed his powerful arms across his chest. “Why would they do something like that?”

“To delay anyone who might be pursuing them, my friend,” Malafar announced, the realization flashing in his head. “But it also brings attention to them, as if saying ‘Here we are, you can’t catch us’ like a couple of schoolyard bullies.” His dark eyes flicked over to Tyrael. “Where are they going?”

“Between the information received from both authorities and from the Priests of Rathma who managed to escape the destruction of their main temple, it looks as if they are heading for New Tristram,” Tyrael stated, pulling  map up on the screen that showed an area of Temeria and part of Sanctuary as well. There were three towns in Temeria with an X on each one and a broad line drawn through them, continuing on into Sanctuary and the town of New Tristram. “Why they are heading to New Tristram is the question of the day. Adria’s house near the ruins of Old Tristram has long since fallen to the elements, rendering it useless as either a base of operations or gathering any supplies from it.”

“Unless there be something there that she knows about and needs,” countered Jineshi with a thoughtful hum and a slight tilt of his head. “Perhaps some secret the Cult of Bael left for her to find later.”

Tyrael inclined his head. “I’ll have a couple of my people investigate the ruins, see if there actually is anything there,” he stated. “Meanwhile, you’re going to New Tristram and try to grab her and her new friend. I’ll call the local sheriff, a Jim Rumsford, and let him know that you’ll be arriving to hopefully stop a problem before it begins.”

Malafar gracefully rose to his feet, his smile sharp as a razor as he looked around at his friends. “Shall we go catch ourselves a murderous witch?”

 

* * *

 

A slender figure clothed entirely in black leather crouched in the center of the cemetery, looking a great deal like a strange phantasm with his corpse white skin, white hair, and strangely pale blue eyes. A frown creased his face as he tugged off a leather glove, revealing long, bony fingers that had strange calluses, before he dug his fingers into the dirt. Wisps of energy in an odd blue green color curled around his arm before sinking into the soil and pale eyes widened slightly before narrowing.

“So that is why your rest was disturbed,” he murmured, his voice deep and gravely before he stood up, letting the dir fall from his fingers. “The Balance was disturbed, and must be put right again.”  Letting his head tip back, he spread his arms and sent his powers out into the town, coaxing those that might be restless to calm down and return to their eternal slumber. “Rest, slumber, bother the living no more.”

It only took a few minutes for everyone to settle back down and the last of the magic trying to rouse them dissipated. Tugging his glove back on, he turned and climbed into his car. He started the motor and turned towards the south, following the feel of the lingering magic. He could not in good conscious allow someone who disrupted the Balance so badly to remain free.

He sped up, determined to make the border by sunset.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Border crossing and New Tristram.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depictions of violence and some graphic descriptions of zombies. We're in Diablo 3 territory now.

Grumbling slightly, Geralt pulled Roach over into the special parking area at the border guard, and put the truck into park as he rolled down his window. One of the guards wandered over, a resigned look on his face and a clipboard in his hands.

“Afternoon,” greeted Geralt with a small and hopefully reassuring smile as he reached down to offer the man his wallet identification that proved he was a Witcher as well as the papers with their official seals that allowed him to pass the border on Witcher Business. 

“Afternoon,” grunted the official, taking the papers and flipping through them, his sour look not abating in the least. “What’s your business in Sanctuary?”

“Witcher work,” Geralt remarked, taking the picture from Ciri and holding it out to the official. “Tracking these two. Have you seen them pass by?”

It was a long shot because Geralt was willing to bet good money that Azar Javed and Adria found a back country road that slid across the border which wasn’t heavily monitored and crossed that way. 

The man glanced at the picture before shaking his head. “Nope, never seen ‘em before,” he said before looking down at his clipboard. “You carrying anything perishable, dangerous, or toxic with you?”

It was on the tip of Geralt’s tongue to say something sarcastic, but he restrained himself since the officer could make a big deal out of their border crossing if he was upset. That had happened to Geralt once when he had been bone tired and needing to get out of Sanctuary. Ended up spending three hours at the Border Patrol’s station as Roach was thoroughly searched for illegal contraband since they couldn’t take his potions without repercussions coming down on them. “Not today.”

The man eyed Geralt who looked back innocently before he sighed, signed the paper on his clipboard, and handed everything to Geralt. “Sign, initial, date, and get the fuck out of here.”

Dutifully, Geralt signed, initialed, and dated the page before handing the clipboard back to the official who took it and returned to his office, grumbling the entire time about “fucking mutant Witchers with no respect for anything”. Geralt simply shook his head, tucked his ID and papers back into the special compartment on the center console for just such things, and rolled the window back up as he started towards the border. 

“If you’re going to be sick, warn me first,” he said, focusing entirely on the faint shimmer he could almost see in the air. Border crossings didn’t affect normal humans at all, but those with a bit of magic to them found the sensation unpleasant at best. The first time he had to cross the border, he had wondered if Vesemir had done something to poison him as the old man hadn’t bothered to warn him first. But Ciri had magic on top of being a Witcher in training, and there was no telling how the crossing would affect her.

Before she could say anything, Roach hit that shimmering almost there section, and Geralt gritted his teeth against the feeling that slid through his body. It was so cold it burned, and he managed to pull off to the side as he curled up in the seat for a few moments and just concentrated on breathing. Beside him, he could hear Ciri whimper in misery, and he lunged over, managing to open the door for her right before she lost the contents of her stomach. He snagged the back of her vest, keeping her mostly in the truck. He closed his eyes and just lay there, uncaring at the sight they must have made on the side of the road as the other cars and trucks casually drove past them. It was only times like this that he wished he wasn’t a Witcher, or at least he reacted the same way as a normal human did.

“What the  _ fuck _ was that?” croaked Ciri, managing to pull herself back into the seat before she fumbled with the bag at her feet. Extracting a bottle of water, she managed to twist the cap off before thoroughly rinsing her mouth out while Geralt just lay sprawled across the seats, trying to convince his brain that his skull honestly wasn’t too small for it.

“The reason why demons exist in Sanctuary only,” he rasped, wincing at how loud his voice sounded in his ears. It took a few minutes before his body managed to calm down, and he carefully sat up, cautious to see if the world wanted to spin around on its own or if everything had settled. Nothing moved that didn’t naturally move anyway, so he counted that a win. “Magical barrier rumored to have been created by one of the angels around the time Leoric the Mad King sacrificed his son to the Demon Lord Diablo. Dunno the truth, but it fucks with anyone who is magical whenever they cross it.”

“And we gotta head back across that when we return to Kaer Morhen,” groaned Ciri, leaning back in the seat and letting her head fall back with her eyes closed. “Any way to get around that?”

“Nope. If there was, it wouldn’t be so effective at keeping demons out.” Geralt managed to get a bottle of water himself and downed half of it in one go. That helped settle his stomach, and he finished the bottle a few minutes later when he was sure he wasn’t going to be painting the inside of his truck with the water he just drank.

Grunting, he crushed the water bottle before he carefully pulled back out into traffic as Ciri fastened her seatbelt again. 

The sun was setting when they reached the small town of New Tristram, and Geralt pulled into the truck stop just inside the town limit. Ciri climbed down with a relieved groan and stretched as Geralt started filling up the nearly empty tank of his truck. She casually sauntered around to lean against the black truck to look at him. “Think we beat them here?”

“Dunno. They had a solid lead on us, but considering how hard the border hit you, we might have gained on them,” Geralt said with a shrug as he glanced around the gas station half of the truck stop. The two of them were definitely drawing looks, but none of the lingering ones that they were use to in Temeria. These looks were more covert, as if trying to figure out how much trouble the two of them were going to cause and if the Witchers were going to target any of those gathered there. “We’ll head to the sheriff’s office as soon as we get done here and introduce ourselves. Meanwhile, why don’t you head inside, pay for the gas, and see if the person working behind the counter has seen our two friends.”

Nodding once, she pushed off the truck, reached in to grab the picture, and sauntered into the gas station, drawing looks simply because she was a highly attractive woman in leather that was just tight enough to show off her curves, and worse, she knew it. Geralt could easy confess that it was that sort of confidence in one’s looks which always got him in trouble as far as Yennifer was concerned. He had strong feelings for her, despite the assurances that all Witchers were emotionless monsters stripped of all feelings during the Trials, and he knew she cared for him too. Unfortunately, they were both too independent to settle down anytime soon even if he had made it clear that he wasn’t the sort to lay down his swords and take up something like wood carving. 

_ No Witcher ever died in bed, _ he thought before shaking his head and pushing all thoughts of Yennifer and her ideas for him away. He was on a hunt in a highly deadly country with Ciri, and he couldn’t afford to let his attention drift when out in the open like this. Besides, if they  _ did _ beat their prey here, then they were going to have to move fast to stop them before the cemetery got up to wander.

He was just hanging up the gas nozzle when he felt a chill trace its way down his spine nearly at the same time the wolf’s head medallion on his chest started vibrating. Swearing, he lunged for the cab and yanked the door open, grabbing for the swords that were inside. He barely managed to get the harness for his own swords on when Ciri came racing towards him, and he heaved her pair at her.

“Looks like they beat us,” she stated, shrugging into her harness with a practiced ease.

“Get everyone inside and have then call the sheriff,” ordered Geralt, climbing up into Roach and starting the engine. They had passed  signs for the cemetery on the way to the town, so any of the restless dead would have to pass by here to get to New Tristram itself. They hadn’t investigated because he had nearly been out of gas at that point and risked breaking down on the side of the road until someone could show up with either a tow truck or a few gallons to get them to a gas station. Not the most ideal conditions when hunting someone.  “Have an alert go out about the restless dead. The more people we can get inside means the less on the street to be victims. Also tell them to kill the pumps.”

She nodded and started shouting at everyone to get inside and under cover as she raced back towards the gas station. He waited until the last person hurried through the glass doors before he pulled Roach up onto the sidewalk, forming a rather effective barricade just as fog started creeping across the asphalt like restless tentacles. 

A siren started up in the growing darkness, and Geralt huffed as he climbed into the back of his truck, instantly going over to the set of drawers that have been bolted to the bed. He grabbed a couple of samum bombs followed by a northern wind and a grapeshot. He didn’t want to use any of the fire ones without risking the possibility of the entire gas station going up, but this combination would be good against large crowds. 

The fog was getting thicker when he jumped down from the truck and slammed the tailgate up, twisting the lock to ensure no one was getting in there without his permission and more than a few minutes of fumbling. He climbed up on the hood and then scrambled up onto the reinforced roof, peering out into the darkness in the hopes of spotting the shambling bodies before they could start causing troubles. 

There was the sound not unlike someone punching a pillow accompanied by a soft green light, and he knew without looking that Ciri had joined him. He gestured to the trapdoor situated in the top of the camper cover. “Grab some samum, north wind, and grapeshot. Nothing flammatory.”

“Any sign of our dance partners yet?” she asked, flipping the trapdoor open and sliding inside, and he forced his pupils open farther, wincing slightly at the brighter lights that nearly blinded him from the gas station. The fog was starting to make things hard to see beyond the gas station, and he was just about to answer negative when something caught his attention.

After so long as a Witcher, hunting things that were bigger, deadlier, and often more sneaky than him, he had learned to trust his instincts, and they were practically screaming at him in a full blown opera that his prey was Right There. “They’re here.”

“Cemetery?”

He shook his head, feeling his blood heat in the face of the upcoming battle. “No idea of the layout. They could slip out the back while we slide in the front. We’ll need backup to corner them.” Possibly in the local law enforcement who can at least shout when they spot Azar Javed and Adria. “Besides, they’ve gotten away with this so far. No reason for them to believe that they hey haven’t gotten away with it this time.”

“Let’s hope they don’t leave before we get a chance to dance,” remarked Ciri, and there was a singing sound as she drew her silver sword.  “Plan?”

“Beyond attack anything that moves until it stops?” he countered getting a good natured snort from her. “You focus on the left half and I’ll work on the right half. Maybe we’ll make enough noise to attract the rest of them. If you have to use any of the Signs, avoid Igni unless you are sure the gas station won’t go up with us in it.”

“Right. Don’t feel like seeing if I can outrun a blast of that size,” Ciri stated before sliding down from the truck, her boot heels clicking loudly on the concrete, and Geralt dropped down beside her. 

Fog swirled around their feet, and Geralt tightened the grip on his sword as he heard the first, slow shuffling of feet and the clatter of bones moving by magic. Soon after that came the low groan of tortured souls, and Geralt took three steps towards the sounds, his fingers twisting into the familiar symbols of Aard seconds before the telekinetic blast rippled out, briefly clearing the fog from in front of them to reveal the first restless dead before the blast struck them, sending them flying back into their fellow zombies. As if that had been some sort of invitation, the zombies turned and started shuffling towards them, arms coming up in a grasping, threatening manner as they started moving towards the Witchers. 

Baring his teeth in a parody of a grin, Geralt lunged for the leading zombies, his sword swinging through the air as he heard Ciri give a credible war cry of her own. He hit the first few zombies like a force of nature, his silver sword flickering in the light as he spun and slashed sending two heads bouncing across the concrete quickly followed by a couple of reaching arms. His body knew this dance, knew where to put his feet for the next strike, the next follow through, and his instincts told him when to duck and dodge, and when it was safe to take a hand off his sword for a bomb or a Sign.

He was aware of where Ciri was, after training her for so long and fighting next to her he almost had a sixth sense about her actions and where she would step next. The faint whomps of her using her teleportation abilities were a counterpart to the crunch of bones and groans from the restless dead.

Grunting as a half decayed hand tried to grab at his coat, he spun with his fingers flashing into the Aard Sign again, blowing more zombies back to give him a bit of room, and with a spin and grunt, he flung a north wind bomb into the zombies to his left. There was a loud bang followed by a backwash of freezing cold, and some of the zombies stopped moving, frozen solid. The follow up grapeshot bomb tore them to shreds, and Geralt whirled around, decapitating three more with a swing. 

He barely had a chance to blink before more zombies were crowding into the spots left open by the recently destroyed zombies, and he had to wonder just how big the New Tristram cemetery was because it looked like there was no end to the restless dead. Snarling out several obscenities, he spun back to Roach and dashed to the truck, not even pausing as he jumped up onto the camper top. Sheathing his silver sword across his back, Geralt’s hand dove into the pouch at his hip and pulled out various vials. Unscrewing the tops, he began to knock back the various potions, knowing he was going to pay for this later but it couldn’t be helped. 

Automatically, his mind identified the potions even as he felt the changes in his altered anatomy. Swallow to help recover enough energy to keep casting Signs, Blizzard to boost his reflexes, and Tawny Owl to help keep him on his feet. His head snapped back as his skin paled to an unhealthy white as black veins traced their way up his throat and face, his lips peeled back as his teeth seemed to grow even more sharp before the effects vanished, leaving him looking as he did before.

But he could  _ feel  _ the difference with each hard thump of his heart. With an animalistic snarl, he launched himself from the top of the truck, causing it to rock on its axles from the force, and Geralt hit the zombies like a tidal wave. They were moving so slow now, he felt like he could just walk up and punch them or rip them apart with his bare hands. 

Samum bombs blew half of his playmates back quickly followed by north winds and grapeshot to decimate the restless dead, and it opened up a path to a sight that he really could have gone without ever seeing for the rest of his life. Across the street in the dirt was an emaciated woman in a dress that was ragged from decay. As Geralt watched, she leaned over and threw up all over the ground, somehow spraying the green brown bile across the grass in a good three foot arc in front of her. The ground began to ripple and new zombies clawed their way free, turning to join the rest of the mob.

“Ciri! Female zombies are making new ones!” he bellowed, hoping she heard him even as he started making his way towards the female. He staggered as something latched onto his ankle, and he glanced down to see a bloated torso, trailing a spine and intestines on the ground behind it as it left a trail of blood and other liquid behind it like some twisted snail, yanking on his leg, trying to pull him down. He swung the silver sword down, slicing arms and the head off and freeing himself, but not before the zombies closed ranks around him, encircling him and offering no way to freedom.

Geralt couldn’t risk taking his hand off his sword with the press of zombies on all sides, and he glanced around, trying to see where the zombies were the thinnest. He whirled his sword, the silver blade slicing through three zombies before four more took their place, pressing closer with hands reaching to tear and mouths gaping to latch onto whatever they could get. 

Just when he was debating on taking the chance of another Sign, the world exploded around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might be one more chapter posted today. Depends on how I feel.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New allies.

For a brief second, Geralt thought that Ciri had used Ignis out of desperation and sent the whole gas station up, but as the light washed over him, he realized it wasn’t fire and there was no crackling of flames in his slightly deafened ears. It was a yellow white glow that tingled as it passed him by, leaving him unscathed as the zombies around him simply disintegrated. He didn’t pause to see who had decided to show up and help against the restless dead as he lunged towards where he had last seen the female zombie maker. He had to take her out and any like her before they were overwhelmed by fresh corpses.

Before he had taken more than two steps, a beam of white blue split the air and froze everything ahead of him a few heartbeats before a furious warcry spilled out into the air, causing Geralt to hesitate long enough for a hulking form to lumber past him with what looked like a  strange sword in a two handed grip. The huge man swung the sword and frozen bodies shattered like so much delicate crystal, and Geralt grinned, following along in his wake to take out the zombies that were starting to crowd close again while making sure he didn’t get caught in the other’s backswing.

“We gotta take out the females!” Geralt bellowed, determined to be heard over the other’s war cry. 

“Crunch!” bellowed a male voice behind and a bit above Geralt, and the hulk paused to glance back over his shoulder, revealing a deeply lined and bearded face. With a start, Geralt realized he was staring at a member of one of the infamous barbarian clans. His weapon, now that it wasn’t in motion, was what looked like a flat metal club with obsidian shards inserted in its edge, and Geralt could testify to its brutal lethality.

A younger man in light clothes raced up and threw out a hand, causing a bolt of purple energy to fly from him and strike the nearest group of zombies before he looked up at the barbarian. “Wretched mothers are here! That way!”

The magic user fired off another beam of cold in the direction Geralt had been moving in, and Crunch grunted as he waded into the fray, frozen bits of zombies flying in every direction. Nodding once to the young man, Geralt raced after Crunch, bombs and Signs flying from him even as he continued twirling and dancing with his sword. 

 

* * *

Ciri grunted as she swung her sword, managing to decapitate two zombies before her sword was partially trapped in the neck of a third. Taking the chance, she planted her foot in the squishy stomach of the zombie and yanked her sword out, twisting it in an attempt to do more damage. She managed to keep her feet as her sword suddenly came free only to swear as she realized the zombies had managed to close around her. Reaching for the unique magic that was entirely her, she felt space twist around her, and her next step had her behind the crowd of zombies and a bit farther away from Geralt.

“Ciri! Female zombies are making new ones!” Geralt’s voice rang through the air, and Ciri desperately looked around for whatever it was that her mentor and teacher had seen. Unfortunately, between the darkness and the fog, it was hard to see anything. Digging into a pouch, she grabbed a cat potion and downed it in one smooth motion, the cap easy to thumb off. She hissed as pain briefly lanced through her head but the darkness became less oppressive. Another glance around and she spotted what Geralt must have seen as a zombie in a ragged dress had zombies clawing their way out of the ground at its feet.

Suddenly, an explosion ripped through the air, and Ciri flinched away from the sound. Briefly, she wondered if one of the zombies managed to light the lingering gas fumes somehow, but there was no crackle of flames nor any heat. The brief distraction cost her, however, as bony fingers raked down her arm, and she hissed as the surprisingly sharp bones that were exposed at the tips of a zombie’s fingers tore through the thicker layer of her leather jacket, the thinner layer of her shirt, and actually scratched her skin. She spun and managed to behead her attacker with a vicious backswing when a whistling sound briefly filled the air.

Zombies all around her were suddenly dropping with a strange poison green light drifting over their putrid skin or were being briefly frozen before exploding into large and motionless chunks. Not bothering to pause and see who her new allies were, Ciri dove back in, determined to do her part in taking down as many zombies as possible.

“Crunch! Wretched mothers are here! That way!” shouted a new voice, and Ciri heard a female swear even as a loud war cry filled the air. She didn’t pay it much attention as long as the zombies continued to fall. Once she caught sight of a woman clad in black leather twirling and flipping through the staggering zombies as if she was at some sort of gymnastics competition, but Ciri definitely had to admit that the new woman had skill since she seemed to be the source of the frozen bodies. 

A blood chilling howl split the night, and Ciri swore, tensing as she caught sight of a large, black wolf racing towards her, and she brought her silver sword up, bracing for the new attack. Only instead of lunging for her, the wolf ignored her and started tearing into the zombies. A chuckle to her left drew her attention to a dark skinned man in a torn black trench coat with a fur ruff on it. The coat was partially opened to reveal a bandolier of bottles and vials slung across a thin chest and a belt that was cocked full of charms, bones, and other things she didn’t want to look too closely at unless she had to. But clothing aside, the most startling things about him were the snake bite piercings in his lower lip and the white cataracs over his eyes.

“Pretty cub need not worry about Malthael,” the man stated in a thick accent as he easily slipped a carbon dioxide cartridge in each of the strange guns he held in his hand. He grinned at her, revealing strong white teeth. “De wolf follow de hunter, and we all dance with death tonight.”

Right, don’t worry about the wolf or the woman. Ciri inclined her head and returned to her fight with the zombies. There were small chuffs as the man fired his guns, and more zombies went down with that poisonous green light dancing over their skin. 

The tide of zombies shifted again, opening up a space long enough for her to spot what must be one of the Wretched Mothers as the female in the tattered dress was leaning over to spew a strange liquid on the ground right before the grass began rippling as a trio of hands began clawing their way out of the ground. She judged the distance, noticed there was enough space around the Wretched Mother, and twisted space in a cool aqua light.

The Wretched Mother must have had a bit of higher intelligence when compared to the rest of the zombies as she turned just as Ciri swung her sword. The sharp silver sword sliced through the ragged remains of the dress and spilled what remained of the Wretched Mother’s internal organs on the ground, and there was a wail before the female zombie spat something globular, putrid smelling, and extremely nasty that sizzled as it caught the edge of Ciri’s coat.

“Wolf! They spit poison!” she bellowed, knowing Geralt would hear her and feeling like a fool because she did not have any blindweed potions on her. She knew Geralt had the ingredients for such in the back of Roach, but she certainly hadn’t thought that any of the restless dead would actually spit acidic poison since none of the previous towns had mentioned anything like a Wretched Mother. Was this just something that happened in Sanctuary? Or were Azar Javed and Adria upping their game?

“Try to herd them back across the street away from the gas station!” shouted a deep male voice that was obviously use to being heard over the sounds of battle. “Malafar, when they’re clear, start with the area wide destruction.”

Oh, that certainly sounded interesting and something Ciri could definitely get behind as she managed to slice the Wretched Mother in half on a backswing. Twisting distance around her again, she ended up back under the gas station, and she used a combination of the Aard Sign, her silver sword, and what few bombs she still had to drive the mob back from the gas station. 

The sudden lurch of the wolf’s head medallion at her throat was the only warning she got before a brilliant red orange cut through the crowd of zombies with an indescribable sound. She watched in awe as the zombies simply disintegrated under the beam before she managed to shake off the feeling and went back to attacking those hanging around the fringes. 

Far too long later, the final zombie fell to pieces on the ground, and she flicked as much blood and gore from her silver sword as possible as she started towards Geralt. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her head still ached from the cat potion as her pupils were bowl rather wide to take advantage of what light there was. She ignored the two other men who were nearby as she stopped before her mentor and looked at him, the skin that now had an unhealthy tinge to it as well as the dark tracery of veins she could see trailing up his neck to his face.

“Cat,” she confessed, meeting his eyes. His pupils were wide too, but she knew that he had forced them open himself as the light was still sufficient enough for him to not need the same potion she had taken. This was almost a ritual for them, a way to verify injuries as well as see which of them was most likely to pass out when it was all said and done.

He huffed, looking a bit disgruntled. “Swallow, Blizzard, and Tawny Owl.”

That got a slight wince from her, and she shook her head. “Going to pass out after?”

“Undoubtedly,” he said before smirking. “I need my beauty sleep.”

Yeah, with three moderately toxic potions in his system, he was most definitely going to fall asleep after taking White Honey to cleanse and assist in repairing the damage done to him by the Witcher Potions. She ran her eyes over him but didn’t see any injuries beyond battered leathers, and her arm throbbed slightly from the scratches she had endured.”We need to get to the cemetery before the trail gets too cold.”

“Let us help you there,” remarked a young man’s voice, and Ciri turned to find their unexpected allies standing there. The young man with dark hair and dressed in a style reminiscent of the island nation of Xiansai stepped forward and offered them a charming smile. “I am Malafar of the Jade flame. These are Crunch of the Wolf Clan, Jineshi the witch doctor, and Demon Hunter Victoria Desmond and Malthael, her wolf.”

“Geralt of Rivia and this is my apprentice, Ciri,” Geralt stated, addressing the group. “We’re Witchers tracking the people behind this.”

“We know the land and will be able to help you best corner then,” Victoria announced before a hard look came over her face, causing her red eyes to flare with a strange light. “Besides, we have a score to settle with Adria.”

Ciri glanced at Geralt who nodded. “Be crowded, but we can take Roach,” he said, gesturing back to the truck. 

He didn’t wait for them to say one way or another as he turned back to his truck, and Ciri easily fell into step beside him. He glanced down at her torn sleeve before back up at her face, and she gave him a wry smile and a slight shake of her head. It was a scratch and she’d deal with it later before she meditated. He nodded once before climbing into the cab while Ciri hopped up into the back of truck, keeping the tailgate down for whomever was going to join her. She was a bit surprised when Victoria opted to climb all the way on top of the camper shell while Jineshi and the wolf hopped up to join Ciri. 

Blind eyes looked around the interior at the various compartments and the open space just big enough for two people to stretch out as long as they were comfortable with each other. She didn’t say anything as she shifted long enough to open one of the other drawers above the bombs where their non battle potions were stored in foam padding. A quick glance showed that they had half a dozen vials of White Honey before they would have to make more, and she scooped two vials out, putting them in her hip pouch before shutting the drawer. The empty vial that had once contained the cat potion was dropped in a container with a few others to be cleaned out and reused later.

“Witchers guard secrets well,” remarked Jineshi, his fetishes and charms on his belt clinking and clanking with each little movement of the truck as Geralt drove towards the cemetery. “Good. De demons don’t need any secrets like dat, and de angels aren’t interested.”

“Witcher secrets are just that, for Witchers,” Ciri firmly stated, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. The last thing her and Geralt needed was to be fending off another like Triss Merigold. Ciri was thankful for the older woman’s assistance in helping her learn about being female when she had been growing up surrounded by all the male Witchers, but she didn’t agree that Witcher secrets should be made available for everyone.

Jineshi chuckled and folded himself into a lotus position with his long legs folded under him before he focused on his strange dart guns. “De Nephilim have no need for Witcher secrets,” he stated, barely moving as Geralt took a corner with a squeal of tires, and Ciri grunted as she was thrown into the drawers, striking the scratches on her arm and causing a brief flare of pain. “We are strong without stealing from others.”

“Glad to hear that,” she managed to get from between gritted teeth as her arm throbbed from the impact. She briefly closed her eyes and shoved the pain away for now. There would be time later to bandage slight injuries and detoxify from the potion still working in her body.

There was a lurch, a hard rock of the truck, and then the sound of gravel under the tires instead of asphalt, and Ciri glanced out the back of the truck to find that they were in the cemetery. Her heart started to pound again at the possibility of another fight so soon, and she stood up in the back of the truck, pushing open the trap door in the top of the camper to allow her to look out.

A slowly dying bonfire flickered in the distance on top of a hill, and Ciri spotted some shadow racing away from the hill, and she banged on the top of the cab. “Left, Geralt! Something’s running away to the left!”

“Stop pounding on my truck!” growled Geralt even as the black vehicle swung towards where Ciri had seen the shadow, but by the time they reached the area, there was only a shimmering portal that snapped shut as they watched.

Frowning, Ciri climbed out of the truck and cautiously moved over to where the portal had been, aware of the others descending to spread out as well, and Geralt moved over to crouch in the grass, his fingers trailing through the long strands that were in disarray from the portal.

“That wasn’t a witch spell,” Ciri stated, frowning hard at the empty air. “Only a powerful mage could have created a portal like that.”

“A witch and a mage, a powerful one at that,” Geralt hummed, rising to his feet to look around. “Seems like things just got complicated.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, description of dead body and some torture. Nothing graphic though.

Crunch watched as the two Witchers moved along the ground, looking at the grass, the dying bonfire, and nearly every inch of the hill top. They moved in sync, talking in low voices and often in only a couple of words that all spoke of a long time hunting together, but to him, it was obvious that Ciri was still learning the trade. She was mostly trained, the blade scar curling under her left cheekbone stating she was no stranger to a fight, but there were still rough edges that would only smooth out with time and experience.

Geralt now, with his cat eyes and the scar that said someone had tried to take his left eye and failed, he moved like one of those that had made the hunt his life. He had been doing quite well against the tireless tide of restless dead between the unusual bombs he had been using and his own sword work when the Nephilim had come upon them. He was definitely someone that Crunch wanted to share tales with over a mug or three and perhaps compare scars as well as lie how they were received.

“Geralt,” Ciri called, kneeling next to a mound of dirt, and Crunch moved over to back her up if it turned out to be more zombies. Instead what he found was a pale, delicate hand partially covered by the dirt as if it and the body it was attached to had been hastily buried in a shallow grave.

She was already digging to unbury what was there, and Crunch bent to help her, his large hands making quick work of the loose dirt. His heart gave a quick thump in his chest when bright red orange curls emerged from beneath the dirt, and his brief thought was for his daughter who had left the clan caravan about five years ago to make her own path in the world. The face that was uncovered was too young for hers by a decade and held none of the harshness that a barbarian’s life carved into their features.

“She was a sacrifice,” Geralt stated, his deep, rough voice carrying through the air, and Crunch watched as he brushed the dirt off of what had once been a rather shapely chest to reveal where her shirt had been ripped open. A large hole had been cut in the center of her chest and dirt had mixed with blood to form a gory mess where her heart had once been. As more dirt was removed, Crunch had to admit that he was glad to see the dirt stained jeans the young woman wore were undamaged. “Her death probably powered the ritual that got the graveyard moving.”

“We’ll have to see if there were others discovered at the previous towns,” sighed Ciri with a frown. “But if the zombies or even ghouls got to the sacrifices first, there would be nothing to differentiate between the sacrifice and a hapless victim by the time they were done.”

“We’ll inform Sheriff Rumsford that he has a fresh body, and perhaps the coroner might be able to tell us more about her,” Malafar announced, walking up to them before glancing over at Jineshi. “Unless you might have some insight?”

Jineshi crouched down on the other side of the body and lightly brushed his fingers over the dead woman’s face, a sort of reverence to his gesture as he muttered under his breath in his spine tingling native language. Geralt and Ciri pulled back slightly to give their resident witch doctor and spirit talker a chance to work his magic, and Crunch noticed that Ciri’s hand came up to briefly touch the snarling wolf’s head medallion at her throat. Was there some sort of religious significance to the medallions as he had noticed that Geralt wore one as well? He didn’t know that much about Witchers aside from the stories that were undoubtedly exaggerated and often highly unflattering.

“She was awake and aware, unable to move or scream as dey took her heart,” murmured Jineshi, the poison green light curling around his fingers and danced along his blinded eyes. “De man spoke of de power he would get, while de woman snapped and snarled at him as she raised de dead. De ingredients had been prepared long before dey arrived in de bone yard, and her heart was de last dey needed.”

“Did she hear what they were after? Why they were in Sanctuary?” asked Victoria, crouching next to Jineshi, and her gaze was intense even as she started at the corpse.

“De woman said someting about bringing  _ him _ back, and dey would bot be honored wit power beyond dere wildest dreams,” Jineshi stated before the light faded, and he shook his head. “She is in de Unformed Land now and beyond Jineshi’s call.”

“At least we’re a bit closer to finding out what their true plans are,” Ciri stated, rising to her feet and dusting her hands off on her leather pants. “Now if we could just lay our hands on them.”

Malafar moved a bit away from the group and pulled his cell phone out of a pocket. Crunch knew that he was calling the sheriff to inform him of the corpse, and he wondered how long it was going to take for someone to show up for her. He hated the thought of leaving her alone in the cold dirt, but if they were needed elsewhere, they couldn’t stay. And there was no guarantee that they managed to get  _ all _ the zombies with that little mob from the gas station.

“How much do you know about Azae Javed?” asked Victoria, breaking through Crunch’s thoughts. “None of our information had him listed as a mage.”

“It was the portal,” Ciri stated with a shrug. “Only a mage or sorcerer could create a portal like that. As our information has Adria listed as a witch, there was no way she would be able to create a portal like that without a lot more preparation. However a mage or sorcerer could easily pull one up with only a few minutes of preparation.”

“Given that we drove up with lights on, we gave them more than enough time for a portal,” Geralt sighed, shaking his head as he also rose to his feet. “At least there isn’t an elemental circle around here for him to tap into. He would have been unlimited in the distance he would be able to teleport to, but with his abilities, no matter how powerful he might be, he only has a range of a mile or two.”

Crunch looked around at everyone, taking in the lines of pain around Malafar’s eyes which indicated that he had a headache brought on by draining a great deal of his arcane reserves, Victoria was favoring her side where she must have taken a blow from one of the zombies, and even Jieshi was moving a bit slower than usual. They all needed a good night’s sleep before they could think about going after Adria and her new partner. Considering the conversation that he heard between Ciri and Geralt, there was a good possibility the two Witchers needed sleep as well for whatever they had done to themselves to go toe to toe with the zombie mob.

They all needed food and rest before they could go on unless it was an emergency. Crunch nodded once and pulled out his own cell phone, texting Tyrael as much information as he could in as small of a text as possible including that they needed to rest and recover. After hitting send, he tucked the phone back into his pocket and started carefully rounding people up to herd back to the truck. He honestly doubted Geralt would let anyone else drive his truck, but they all needed to sleep. Time to get them to the nearest hotel with an open restaurant nearby.

Ciri and Geralt both looked at him with suspicion as he tried to herd them, and he just grinned. “Time for the best part of a battle,” he announced. “Food and lying about how many you destroyed before collapsing in a soft bed for the night.”

There was a touch of wistfulness in Ciri’s eyes but she still looked to Geralt, the wistfulness changed to concern. A student concerned for her teacher as it should be when the student knows that the teacher is either hurt or in danger of some sort. Geralt rolled his eyes but let himself be ushered towards his truck with Ciri following behind him.

“Where’s a good hotel that won’t mind a couple of Witchers crashing for the night?” asked Geralt as Crunch helped Malafar and Victoria into the back of the truck where Ciri was already sitting with Jineshi.

“Our bus is near the local Restful Inn,” Crunch stated with a shrug. “They’re always happy with the business no matter who’s paying the bill.” He grinned at Geralt as he carefully climbed into the front seat. He was quite aware of his large frame and what it could do to unaugmented shock absorbers which was why he normally rode a junkyard hog built with him in mind. “As long as we don’t trash the rooms in a fit of drunken revelry, they won’t blink at our group.”

Geralt blinked at him for a second before shaking his head. “Forgot this isn’t Temeria, and you people have different priorities than worrying about a couple of mutant Witchers.”

“Wait until you face off against your first demon,” chuckled Crunch, settling in the bench seat with only the slightest creak of springs. “Then you’ll understand why people don’t really care about what you are as long as you can help them.”

Snorting, Geralt pushed the sleeve of his coat up, revealing pale skin with a tracery of almost black veins underneath and a vicious scar that was clearly an inhuman bite mark. “Ran into a cluster of imps who tried to see how tasty I was last time I was prowling around here,” he remarked with a smirk. “Considering I had just gotten finished with a couple of water hags who thought I might be a good meal, none of them were happy when I was done with them.”

Crunch let loose with a bellowing laugh filled with delight. “If we’re going to start comparing scars, we need to get a steady supply of ale just to ensure the tales grow as tall as the mountains.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Geralt stated with a smirk and dancing cat eyes. “Of course, my most interesting one is when I broke the curse on a striga and was almost killed.”

“You, my friend, are either the biggest liar in the world or the luckiest bastard,” announced Crunch with another laugh and a slap to Geralt’s shoulder that caused the Witcher to grunt, but he didn’t lose control of the truck. He was willing to believe that the story was true considering something like that was almost too fantastical to be true but considering the reputation of the cat eyed hunters that circulated around the barbarian clans, it might be far too true.

He’d just have to get Geralt drunk enough to find out.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria and Ciri talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of f/f romance but nothing serious.

Gritting her teeth, Victoria tugged off her gloves and tried desperately to warm her frozen fingers as she sat in the back of the truck, a sleepy Malthael curled up next to her. Her frost bolts were highly effective at freezing her prey, but they had the unfortunate side effect of slowly freezing her fingers until she was in danger of frostbite. Normally, she would have interspersed bombs among the frost bolts, but they had been fighting at a gas station, and she certainly wasn’t going to be the one to explain to Tyrael that the station had gone up due to one of her bombs. Not when it hadn’t been necessary as it had only been zombies and not demons.

Her eyes drifted over to Ciri who was sitting cross legged with her back against the drawers there. Her swords were laid across her lap and her hands rested on her knees as she seemed to be almost asleep, her head bowed and her eyes closed. The pale haired woman hadn’t moved since she had downed a potion and disposed of the vial. Not even when the truck took a corner rather sharply and caused her to tip to one side. That was a great deal of discipline that Victoria definitely admired, and she wondered if the Witcher training was anything like that she had gone through to become a full member of her clan. 

Victoria was almost certain that Ciri wasn’t a full Witcher yet, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have the skills and abilities that he mentor had. However, that strange teleporting that she had been doing in and around the zombies was something that Victoria had never heard before nor had seen before that time. It wasn’t the same thing that Malafar did the occasional time he took it in his head to teleport around, as it looked more instantaneous, as if she was simply folding space and stepping through. It was highly devastating against multiple opponents, but Victoria had to wonder how draining it was for the silver haired woman to jump like that multiple times. She glanced up at Malafar who was staring at Ciri with curiosity in his dark eyes and a touch of lust as well. The demon hunter knew Malafar would never cheat on his concubine for any reason save for his wife demanding another child, but even Victoria had to admit to herself that Ciri was highly attractive, and she had honestly never looked at another woman in a sexual way before. 

“I wonder if I might head to Temeria for a bit to study their tomes of magical knowledge,” mused Malafar, leaning back and closing his eyes as his right hand came up to massage his forehead. “There are apparently different techniques than what the Yshari Sanctum had available to them.”

“Are you sure you want to cross to border again?” Victoria asked, her voice soft out of respect for his headache, but she noticed his left hand was carefully cradled in his lap. She knew he suffered from bad arthritis in his dominant hand due to an attack from a bully at the Sanctum but most of the time it didn’t seem to bother him at all. “Is your hand all right?”

“A few painkillers, bit of food, and some rest and I’ll be fine,” Malafar remarked, offering her a slightly strained smile. “You know how durable I am. A few zombies, not even Wretched Mothers, will be able to keep me down for long.”

Jineshi chuckled. “De spirits be happy dey not under de control of de others and can sleep again,” he murmured, leaning back to lace his fingers across his stomach. “Be a good night tonight. Sleep very good.”

“Geralt and I will get a room at the hotel unless he decides to rent a partner for the night,” Ciri suddenly stated, opening her aqua green eyes and looking at them, appearing much more calm and surprisingly rested. Her pupils weren’t blown open like they had been, making Victoria wonder first what she had taken or done to herself to make her eyes appear so large, and then speculate on the strange rest she had done that had somehow cleared up the effects that she had been under. Could something like that help the demon hunters?

“Does he do that often?” inquired Malafar, glancing at her before closing his eyes. “It must be quite tedious to always be chased out of the room because he wishes to entertain someone.”

Ciri shrugged a shoulder. “It’s a good way to blow off steam and leftover adrenalyn from a hunt,” she said with a smirk. “I know how to make myself scarce or look up company of my own.”

Victoria chuckled, feeling the hatred that fueled her for the hunts fade slightly in the face of the light hearted banter between Ciri and Malafar. She knew that her hatred would return when she needed it on her next hunt, but for now, she could relax her iron control and just be. She certainly couldn’t regret stepping onto the path of the demon hunter, not when the alternative was a life of loneliness and screaming in the dark at every little sound. But there were times when the iron discipline holding back the hatred that burned in her like lava fresh from the volcano was exhausting to maintain. There had been a few times when she had been oh so tempted to just let go and vent her hatred on everything, but that would break the delicate cycle that she walked.

_ Hate creates Destruction. Destruction creates Terror and Terror creates Hate, _ she reminded herself, tipping her head back and closing her eyes.  _ To lose Discipline is to start the cycle of Hate. _ By stepping onto that path, she became no better than the very demons she hunted, and the others of her clan would hunt her.

She must have dozed off because the next thing she was aware of was the slamming of the truck doors, and she blinked, looking around to find that they were outside the Restful Inn. Running a hand through her short hair, she climbed out of the back of the truck with Malthael who brushed against her leg as they started towards the check in desk. 

She made sure to hang back far enough that the person behind the check in desk didn’t try to charge them double just because she was there as that had happened in the past much to her irritation. Usually, Malafar secured any rooms for them when they weren’t sleeping in the modified touring bus that Tyrael had given them when they had been on the road chasing down the rogue Horadrim Zoltun Kulle. So, she was rather surprised when Ciri wandered out and offered up a key card with a grin. 

“We can room together or you can get one of your allies to room with you,” Ciri offered with a shrug. “They had three rooms available, and they’re gonna open the kitchen for all of us.”

“Considering Jineshi and Crunch seen to compete to see who can snore the loudest, and Malafar often mutters in Xian in his sleep, I think I’ll take my chances with you,” remarked Victoria with a wry grin as she plucked the key card out Ciri’s hand and started towards the room that was written on the card with Malthael following her. “Hope you don’t mind sharing with a wolf.”

“He hasn’t started humping my leg so that makes him better mannered than a majority of the men I meet, so he’s definitely welcome,” Ciri laughed as she followed Victoria. That was definitely something that she could understand. Far too many people figured that because she only wore leather clothing with reinforced patches that she was more than willing to spread her legs for whomever showed her an interest. Of course, one look at her burning red eyes usually discouraged any hopeful suitor.

Ciri stood in the center of the room and glanced at the twin beds. “I don’t care where I sleep,” she admitted with a shrug. “Might even meditate all night instead of actually sleep.”

“I’ll take the bed closest to the windows then,” Victoria stated, starting to peel off her armor and drop it next to the bed in question. “That will give me good coverage if anything should be foolish enough to attack us in the night.”

“Go ahead a get a shower first if you want. I have to get my bag from the truck,” Ciri stated before ducking out of the room, and Victoria blinked after her in surprise. Ciri was most definitely the most open and friendly person Victoria had ever met since she became a full demon hunter. She didn’t balk at Victoria’s eyes or the fact that there was always the faintest scent of brimstone or sulfur that seemed to cling to her leathers due to constantly fighting demons. 

“This is the more interesting hunt we’ve been on, Malthael,” she murmured, rubbing the large head and getting a delighted whine for her actions. She smiled down at him before stripping off the last of her armor and dropped it on the bed before taking one of the hand crossbows with her into the bathroom. It had only taken being attacked in the shower once to get her in the habit of taking a weapon with her wherever she went even if she didn’t wear her armor all the time.

It was a decadent half hour later before Victoria emerged from the steam filled bathroom, drying off her short hair that she kept in a pageboy cut, and she looked up, tensing slightly as the door opened. Ciri entered with a bag hanging from one hand and pushing a service cart with a couple of large pitchers and a large domed serving platter on it.

“Stopped by the kitchen and just picked up things to make sandwiches,” Ciri explained with a shrug as she absently kicked the door shut behind her. “Have water and unsweet tea since I wasn’t sure what your preferred poison was.”

“Thanks,” Victoria said, tossing the towel back towards the bathroom as she walked over to the cart, unconcerned about her nudity or the variety of scars that decorated her body, showing the hard life she has led. She blinked in surprise as Ciri put two bowls on the floor, one with water and the other containing a cut up cooked steak. Malthael’s ears perked up and he padded over before shoving his muzzle into the meat to scarf it down. Victoria rolled her eyes at his lack of manners. “Don’t eat too fast or you’ll be miserable in under an hour.”

That warning only got a flick of an ear as the wolf focused on his unexpected meal. Shaking her head, Victoria started to put a couple of sandwiches together as Ciri vanished into the bathroom. The sound of the shower kicking on a few minutes later told Victoria that Ciri was also going to indulge in the luxury that was hot water, and she focused on filling the empty pit that was her stomach instead of the other woman under the water.

She was halfway through her second sandwich when the sound of singing came from the bathroom, rather loud as if Ciri was determined to drowned out something that the shower couldn’t.

“Back and forth on the pendulum, swinging hard towards the outside! Smash the wall of the clocks and run overcoming the confines!” sang Ciri, her rather pleasant voice  spilling out into the main bedroom, and Victoria frowned slightly. The words were vaguely familiar, as if she had heard them at some point in the recent past, but she couldn’t put her finger on where or when. “Wake the wolf with a distant roar, strands of ash separated to entwine on a misty shore. Troubled lives ever fated! The shimmer of white skies, I spin to and fro. A flicker of wild eyes gifts I can’t control. The shimmer of white skies, the legacy leashed in my cries shall reign over bitter white skies!”

Ciri had a really nice singing voice, but Victoria had to wonder just what she was trying to drowned out in the shower. The walls in the hotel weren’t  _ that _ thin but some noises just seemed to slip through no matter what happened. She shrugged a shoulder and went back to her food. She’d ask Ciri when the other woman came out of the shower.

It was another quarter of an hour before Ciri emerged, casually drying off with her hair wrapped up in a towel, and Victoria glanced at the various scars on the other woman’s pale skin. There was a deep one on her left thigh that looked like something had tried to take her leg off, but she wasn’t favoring it in any obvious way.

“What was that song you were singing?” Victoria asked as Ciri casually sat on the other bed and pulled the towel off her hair to rub the white strands dry. “It sounded familiar.”

“It’s called  _ Lady of Worlds _ by Dandelion,” chuckled Ciri, her eyes dancing with a private joke. “He’s a friend of Geralt’s and seems to find some of his inspiration by building up these fanciful ideas about what it is to be a Witcher.” She shook her head. “Any of his songs that reference ‘the wolf’ or ‘white wolf’ are those that he wrote about Geralt.”

Now Victoria was able to place the song and name. It had been very popular on the radio recently, and it seemed like the singer always had one of his various songs being played every time the radio was turned on in the bus. “You have a very pleasant singing voice.”

“Thanks,” Ciri said with a friendly smile before jerking a thumb at the wall. “Dunno who it was, but I heard someone calling their nightingale for some shower phone sex and didn’t want to listen in while they were going at it.”

“That would be Malafar and his concubine,” Victoria remarked with a small, sharp smile. “If he had been calling his wife, the conversation would have started with Honored Wife instead of My Nightingale.”

Ciri shook her head, and Victoria watched those white strands dance across those shoulders. If Victoria was going to be honest with herself, she hadn’t allowed herself to be attracted to anyone since she buried her sister after pulling her from the river. Yet, she couldn’t help but feel a bit of attraction, or maybe curiosity, for the Witcher woman.

“I can’t understand how anyone could have a wife and a concubine,” Ciri confessed. “Geralt has enough trouble with his love life and he just has two sorceresses who both want him for themselves.”

Victoria grinned and folded her legs as she sat on the bed, nursing her water, and she watched Ciri help herself to the sandwich fixings and the tea. “From what Malafar said, the Greater Families of Xiansia, which are pretty much nobility, marry for alliances and to continue the bloodline, but they have a lover on the side that is someone they honestly fell in love with. Both the wife and husband have their lovers which has nothing to do with alliances or bloodlines and everything about emotional support.”

“I suppose that’s not the worst arrangement I’ve heard,” confessed Ciri, taking a long drink of her tea, and Victoria slid off her bed to refill her glass. “I don’t sleep in anything, but there’s a robe I can put on if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Victoria turned to look at Ciri with a raised brow. “That would be highly hypocritical as I do not sleep in anything either,” she stated before shrugging and deciding to be blunt about her feelings. “I confess that you are attractive, and I have not allowed myself to think of anyone in such a manner for a very long time.”

Chuckling, Ciri put her now empty glass down on the bedside table before rising gracefully to her feet as well. She walked over to stand in front of Victoria but not crowding into her personal space which worked out very well with Victoria’s instincts. There was a reason why she used hand crossbows, bola launchers, and bombs instead of more close combat weapons, because demons enjoyed getting in a person’s face to tear them apart.

“Anything I should be aware of before I take you to bed for a night of no strings fun?” inquired the pale haired woman with a soft, inviting smile.

“Don’t pin me to the bed and nothing sharp like nails or bites,” Victoria suggested with a shrug. Nothing that would make her think of demons in the middle of lust and cause her to lash out.

Ciri inclined her head before reaching out to rest a hand callused by swinging a sword on Victoria’s shoulder. “I believe that is perfectly reasonable,” she murmured before leaning forward to press their lips together.

It was soft and gentle, startling a sound of surprise from Victoria, but she reached up to place her hands, so different from Ciri’s with the calluses from crossbows and bolts, on the other woman’s shoulders, marveling at the soft skin under her fingers. A soft sound, almost a hum, slipped out of Ciri’s mouth, and she tilted her head, somehow deepening the kiss. Victoria’s eyes fluttered shut as she gasped at the sensation starting to creep down her spine. 

“You taste of fire,” murmured Ciri, pulling back enough to look at Victoria who managed to open dazed eyes to stare at the lady Witcher. A small, satisfied smile curled those pink lips, and Victoria found herself a touch breathless in a way that no fight had ever managed. “I’m looking forward to tasting you all over.”

“I’ve never done something like this before,” Victoria murmured, needing to confess for some reason. “Not soft and gentle like this.” Her previous experience with such things was hard, hot, and fast, stolen moments after a hunt when the heat of battle still pounded through her veins and she barely had a chance to peel off her armor before her partner was on her, his own eyes burning as they came together like two wild animals, snarling and clawing at each other, giving as well as they got.

“It’s fine. If you want to stop at any time, say so,” Ciri murmured before tossing her a teasing smile. “We can spend the rest of the night sleeping or playing a few rounds of Gwent.”

It was such an absurd idea, the two of them sitting naked on a bed or floor while the fast paced strategy card game was spread out between them, that it startled an honest laugh out of Victoria. Not a chuckle or a huffed laugh, but an honest to the gods amused laugh that held only mirth and amusement in the sound.

“I have a Skellige deck and a Scoia’tael with me. Geralt prefers Northern Realm and Monsters when we fight each other during down times,” Ciri offered with a teasing grin. “You are more than welcome to play with my deck.”

Victoria snorted and shook her head. “If I didn’t know better, I would say that you were trying to offer me some really bad pickup lines,” she said before reaching up to brush her fingers over the wolf’s head medallion that snarled from the chain around Ciri’s neck. “What’s this exactly? I saw you touch it a few times in the cemetery, and both you and Geralt wear one.”

“It’s a mark of the Witcher School that trained us, the School of the Wolf, and it vibrates when magic is cast around it,” explained Ciri. “Officially, I haven’t taken my Trials yet, but I’m allowed to wear it since I’m in the field so much with Geralt.”

“So when you were touching it, that was to verify it was actually vibrating?” inquired Victoria, rather fascinated with the idea of a magic sensing medallion. Perhaps she might talk to her clan elders about possibly speaking to the Witcher Schools to see what they might share in an exchange of information and techniques. 

Ciri nodded. “When Jineshi knelt next to the body, I wasn’t expecting it to react to whatever he was doing but it did.”

Victoria nodded before offering Ciri an almost reluctant grin. As much as she might have been looking forward sharing an intimate time with the pale haired woman a few moments earlier, now it just felt strange as if she had been rushing into something that she hadn’t been ready for. “If that offer of Gwent is still on the table, I think I would enjoy passing the time that way.”

Smiling, Ciri released Victoria who felt strangely confused now that the other’s warm skin wasn’t pressed against her but also vastly relieved, letting her know that she had made the right choice, and the demon hunter watched as the Witcher moved over to her bag and dug around for a few minutes. 

“Hope you don’t mind if I ask you more about Sanctuary and the besties you have here,” Ciri remarked before straightening with a pair of hard leather cases in her hand. She grinned and offered the tooled leather to Victoria. “Do you want Skellige or Scoia’tael?”

“Skellige, and that’s fine because I’m curious about your training and what you face in regards to my own training and foes,” Victoria stated, accepting the one case, and Ciri moved to sit cross legged on her chosen bed.

The request got a shrug. “Can tell you what I can, but there’s a lot of Witcher secrets involved in something like that.”

Victoria sat down across from Ciri, nodding as she understood the warning for what it was. There would be some things that she just couldn’t talk about. “That is perfectly understandable, and I don’t want your secrets. However, some of your training may go to help my clan in our fight against the demons that still haunt Sanctuary.”

“Fair enough,” agreed Ciri, grinning as she shuffled the green backed cards with the dexterous fingers of a long time card player and possible card shark. 

With a small smirk on her own lips, Victoria removed the purple backed cards from the hard leather case and proceeded to demonstrate that the pale haired Witcher wasn’t the only possible card shark in the room. From the light of interest and delight that appeared in Ciri’s eyes, it was a welcomed challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Ciri sings is Lady of Worlds by Miracle of Sound. Here's the link to it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=43FnCO1DkOU
> 
> I'd recommend any of his work because it's fabulous. The Path is my ringtone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malafar winding down after the fight.

Malafar groaned as he dropped his overnight bag on a bed before falling backwards on that same bed. Jineshi had expressed an interest in remaining on the touring bus as he had a few things he wished to do tonight before sleeping himself. Which Malafar took to mean one of Jineshi’s witch doctor rituals, possible to calm the spirits of those who had been risen tonight. While not a Priest of Rathma, Jineshi had been trained to talk to spirits as well as deal in poisons and the occasional zombie since his potential was discovered as a child. A shiver raced down Malafar’s spine before he could stop it at the memory of those twisted undead dogs that drooled fire and had spikes rising from their backs, circling around Jineshi with the air dancing around them from the heat they gave off while the witch doctor cackled, the sound floating through the air and mocking the demons they faced with what little sanity Jineshi seemed to have abandoned at the moment.

No, Malafar was quite willing to let the witch doctor do whatever rituals he wished without watching any of them. While he was eager to learn different ways of magic and infusing them into his own particular way of twisting the arcane, he knew he had no desire to be surrounded by summoned monsters like that while cackling as if completely insane. Shaking his head, he pushed himself up off the bed and left the room, heading for the kitchen for something to quickly eat.

The kitchen worker was very polite and offered to make him whatever he wanted (apparently news of the fight at the gas station had spread through the town already) with whatever she had in the kitchen. He had smiled and simply asked for a cheese steak sandwich and fries. Not something he would normally ask for this late at night, but he needed the meat and cheese to not only fill the empty hole in his stomach but also help replenish his reserves. It wasn’t long before the scent of cooking beef and melting cheese mixed with peppers to swirl through the air and cause his stomach to growl loudly as he poked among the cabinets for a decent tea pot and some palatable tea. 

He wasn’t sure if it was coincidence or luck that allowed him to find a tin of loose leaf tea from Xiansia, but either way he wasn’t going to question it after a quick sniff proved that it was untampered with. A pot of hot water, a cup, and he was easily adding his dinner to the tray he had put together. He assured the woman that he would be fine carrying it up to his room, and if he was hungry after eating he wouldn’t hesitate to call down for dessert.

The fries were hot, seasoned, and far too tempting for him to not resist eating them on the way back to his room. By the time he reached his room, the fries were gone, and there was loud laughter coming from behind the door Crunch and Geralt were sharing. Apparently their resident barbarian and the elder Witcher had very few problems  in rooming together which is a good thing. Crunch was no stranger at expressing his displeasure at a situation, often loudly and at the top of his considerable set of lungs right before bodies started flying through the air.

After fixing the pot of tea to steep, Malafar stripped out of his clothes, letting them pile on the floor for now before he dug into the hot sandwich. It was a bit tricky eating it with mostly one hand, but the arthritis in his left hand was reminding him why it was always troublesome to unleash his more devastating spells. Forcing his fingers into the appropriate signs while channeling the arcane powers was tricky at the best of times, but with severe trauma induced arthritis in his dominant hand, it made it nearly impossible some days. He was just fortunate that he had managed a work around for many of his spells.

One he had finished half his sandwich, he dug out his phone and dialed a familiar number that had come up on his ‘Missed Calls’ list earlier. Judging from the time stamp, it had undoubtedly come through when he had been shoulder deep in zombies.

“Good evening, Honored Wife,” Malafar said when the phone on the other end was answered, slipping into his native tongue. “I apologize that I was unable to answer your call earlier, but I was otherwise occupied in stopping a mob of zombies.”

“Understandable, Honored Husband,” came the sweet if cool voice of his wife, Chiyong, and he could picture her wrapped in silk while sprawled on a divan made of overstuffed pillows with her favorite incense curling in the air. Such a far scene from the hotel room he’s sitting in with half a meal demolished and his clothes rumpled on the floor. “Your Revered Father bade me call and invite both you and your consort to his birthday party next month.”

“I shall do my best to arrive in a timely manner with my consort,” Malafar stated, knowing he couldn’t refuse a request from his father especially as it was for his birthday. This would also be the first time the rest of his family met Kaercie in person. There had been conference calls over the phone but nothing face to face. “How is Yu Long?”

“He is excelling in his lessons and has even started showing a talent for the arcane,” Chiyong announced, a smug note in her voice as if Yu Long’s accomplishments were all her doing. Malafar rolled his eyes at that but managed to keep his opinion out of his voice as they continued talking about their son. About halfway through the conversation, Chiyong brought up the possibility of a second child between them, and Malafar realized that was the real reason for her call. A brief part of him wondered if she was already pregnant with her own consort’s child and wished to pass it off as his. It wouldn’t be the first time in Xiansia history that such a thing would happen, but the thought didn’t bother him to be honest. 

A few more minutes of conversation, and he was able to politely end the call, breathing a sigh of relief when he dropped the phone next to him on the bed. He cared about Chiyong, truly he did or he wouldn’t have married her no matter what the alliance being offered was, but he hadn’t been joking too much when he called her deadly and cold blooded. The last time he had been home after his time at the Sanctum, she had wondered if his arthritis had made him weak which would never do for the Scion of the Jade Flame. He had seen the calculation in her eyes as she debated on removing him from the family, but he had quickly and efficiently crushed those plans by showing off the skills he had learned from the Sanctum. 

Shaking his head, he put those memories behind him as he rose to his feet and padded to the bathroom, managing to work off his clothes one handed. His left hand felt stiff and ached as if the bones there were broken anew, and he sighed as he realized he was probably going to have to take a strong painkiller to get any sleep that night between the soul deep ache that came from over extending himself magically and the throbbing in his hand. 

_ I’ll have to let Crunch know, _ he mused before pausing in the door of the bathroom as he heard more laughter coming from the room next to his, and he huffed, shaking his head.  Truthfully, he should just sleep in the bus, but he was looking forward to a long, hot shower, and a bed that was large enough that he could spread out on. He would just let his allies know that he would be unavailable for anything until morning, and even then, they might have to pour him into the bus for a few hours.

Entering the bathroom, he was delighted to see that this Restful Inn had plexiglass doors instead of the cheap curtains he was use to in such places, and he smirked as he started the water hot enough to send steam rolling off the walls. He managed to take down his hair, the various pins and clips clattering in the stoppered sink, and he climbed under the hot water with a groan of pure pleasure. He twisted slightly so the water beat down on a muscle in his back, and he purred, nearly melting, as the tight muscle relaxed, allowing the tension along his spine to slide out of him.

Raising his right hand, he conjured up a small globe of light which made his head throb anew, as if someone was trying to carve out his brain with a very dull spoon. “Crunch, I’m going to have to take a strong painkiller tonight, and Jineshi is spending the night in the bus. I don’t have the energy for wards tonight.”

Then he sent it through the wall with a flick of his fingers, grinning at the high pitched  yelp of surprise that action got him. Undoubtedly from the Witcher as Crunch had seen such a trick before. How amusing that something so simple could startle one of the fabled Witchers of Temeria. 

He shook his head and turned his attention to the steam covered shower door. He was going to regret this last bit later, but he  _ needed _ to talk with her again before he sought his own bed, to reassure himself that she was fine. With his left hand, he carefully drew a circle of runes that glowed a soft blue on the steam covered door before the area between them flared with the same blue light. When it faded, what looked like a round window resided there, opening into a bedroom where a shapely young woman was lying on the rumpled bed. 

“Good evening, my nightingale,” Malafar purred as Kaercia Mosswhisper sat up, a smile pulling at the scars that covered half her face. “You are looking ravishing this evening.”

She shook her head as her eyes flickered over him. “And you’re in the shower, looking like you’ve just gone ten rounds in the Horadrim training grounds,” she stated, concern evident on her face. “Are you all right?”

“I will be now that I’ve talked to you,” he replied, leaning back against the cool tiled wall in an almost graceless sprawl. A seductive smile curled his lips as he grabbed the small bar of complimentary soap and started washing his chest, enjoying the feel of the soft soap sliding across his skin. 

“And talking is all you wished tonight, Malafar?” inquired Kaercia with a raised brow as she slowly managed to get herself propped up against her headboard. The same bullies that had broken Malafar’s hand with their boots had attacked Kaercia and left her for dead in the Caldeum desert. It was only the luck of the 51 gods of Xiansai that brought a traveling merchant to her aid, and he had gotten her to a doctor in time to save her life but not her mobility. 

“Well, if you are offering, I certainly wouldn’t mind a bit of assistance with a small problem that has popped up in the face of your beauty, my nightingale,” he purred, letting a hand drift down his torso to wrap around his hard cock.  “And after I shall tell you about the latest hunt that we find ourselves involved in. It even has a pair of Witchers from Temeria.”

Her eyes lit up in excitement as he knew they would, and she pushed the blankets away from her with a smirk. “Tell me more,” she purred, casually stripping of her nightgown to toss it aside. “Tell me everything.”

Chuckling, he began talking, not only about their mission and the Witchers, but what he wanted to do to her for their mutual pleasure. It wasn’t long before her hands were between her thighs, and her moans of pleasure were mixing with his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really sorry about the lack of updates. RL has been totally CRAZY! But hopefully I'll be able to get a couple of chapters from various stories up for your reading enjoyment.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Priest of Rathma arrives.

It was the middle of the night when the 1923 Silver Ghost rolled to a stop in the middle of the Tristram cemetery, almost in the exact spot Geralt had parked his truck hours earlier. The engine idled a few minutes before stopping, leaving the night silent save for the ticking of hot metal in the cool air. The door opened to allow a tall, thin man to emerge in a creak of black leather, and Sebastian Graves frowned as he looked over the cemetery, his pale eyes glowing in the moonlight. The magic used to raise the dead lingered in the air, dancing along his skin like a slow drag of nettles, and he bared his teeth in a small snarl. 

It was the same people who were doing this as had raised the previous ones, and he was very tired of playing catch up with them. Unfortunately, those that had investigated before him had removed any clues that might remain to inform him as to what his opponents’ plans truly were aside from disrupting the Balance. Turning back to his car, he opened the trunk and dug out a couple of books, flipping through the various pages as he skimmed the spidery writing for the information he desired. He had an idea of how to gather more information, but he wanted to be sure on his actions lest he upset the Balance himself.

After a few minutes of serious study, he felt better about what he was about to do, and he tucked the book back into the trunk before closing it. He hadn’t been able to attempt this at the previous sights because the feel of the dead was too old for such a questioning. Here, there was fresh blood spilled on the ground.

With a mix of salt, ash, and herbs, he drew a circle on the grass, inscribed with various glyphs, and prayers of power dripped from his lips as he moved with a subtle grace. The last few grains were brushed from his hand to finish the circle, and he stood in the center, his hands outstretched as he took a deep breath. Slowly letting it out, he released all of his anxiety and uncertainty flow out from between his lips as the cool power filled him.

“Show me what happened here,” he murmured, pale white blue light falling from his fingers like fog to curl around his feet. The glyphs began glowing with the same pale blue light as the power touched them, and he reached out for the spirit of the one who had died here. “Help me restore the Balance.”

Thin wisps of fog rose up to form a shimmering oval before him, and he grinned in fierce triumph as the surface seemed to part, revealing this very spot hours earlier. The night was lit only by the small campfire as a man paced nearby, impatience in every line of his body. Firelight glinted off the multitude of facial piercings as he tossed a glare towards the woman wrapped in shawls and flowing skirts that knelt next to a motionless female form on the ground, red hair almost hidden by the long grass.

“What is taking so long?” growled the man, his voice deep and full of he arrogance of one use to being obeyed no matter the order. “We should be moving by now. Our power awaits!”

“You are the one who needed time to recover from the border crossing, Azar Javed,” countered the woman, bangles on her wrists clattering as she moved, the details of what she was doing hidden by the darkness. “We are still ahead of the Witcher mutants that nip at our heels, and those who defend this pitiful country do not even realize we are here.”

Azar Javed shook his head. “We lost what lead we had with that crossing,” he growled, glancing around as if expecting the Witcher to jump out of the shadows. “We need to make up time if we’re going to make our goal.” He glared at the woman. “Or have you forgotten your vow, Adria?”

“Do not speak to me about forgotten vows, mongrel,” snarled Adria, her head snapping up to glare at Azar Javed, and she raised a hand to point a knife at him. The blade was dark and warped, but the edge glittered in the firelight with a lethal sharpness. “You are a  _ child _ playing with forces you barely understand compared to  _ Him _ !”

Her tone took on an almost worshipful tone, but Azar Javed’s face simply screwed up in disgust as he resumed his pacing. Sebastian watched as Adria chanted in a twisted, almost demonic language, and he shivered as the power in the memory tried to rise up and spread through the cemetery again, but there was nothing to support it, leading to it quickly dissipating again. A flash of light was the knife sliding easily into the motionless woman’s chest, and all around the two, the ground started to boil as the dead clawed their way out of their graves. There were certain undead that glowed with a dark red light, and Azar Javed quickly restrained those with his own magic. A few moments later, those undead crumbled to dust, and Sebastian narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out why those were so special while the rest were directed towards New Tristram.

Adria directed Azar Javed on what to gather and she hastily buried the body before she joined the scramble for various items. Azar Javed’s head snapped up at the distant sound of a truck engine, and he gestured sharply, creating a portal of some sort. Adria gathered up her skirts and sprinted for the portal, her ill gotten gains clutched to her chest as Azar Javed followed her into the portal just as the powerful pickup roared to a stop nearby.

“Thank you, my dear,” murmured Sebastian, letting the image fade and gently sending the spirit back into Rathma’s care. While he might not know the details of their plans, he now had enough to start his own investigations. He had their names and the information that they wanted to bring someone back for power. However in Adria’s case, it might be something a bit more carnal than simply power.

He easily scattered the circle and glyphs, rendering the salt, ash, and herbs inert and useless to any else who might use them. With a tired sigh, he crouched down on his heels and pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to soothe the slight ache there that was slowly developing. He had crossed the border between Temeria and Sanctuary twice that week and hadn’t had more than a few stolen hours of rest as his sense of duty pushed him to keep going, but he knew he needed to get some rest before he became a liability.

Shaking his head, Sebastian stood up and closed his eyes as he tilted his head back. Before he could look towards his own rest, he had to see to those whose eternal rest were disturbed this night. He reached out again with his powers and prayers, this time to soothe and return to full rest instead of seek answers, and he felt a few twitches beneath his feet before they settled again. It took longer than normal for him to accomplish his task, but the cemetery of New Tristram was close enough to the area where the bodies from  _ Old _ Tristram had been buried that he had a lot more to soothe back to rest.

He was just finishing up when he heard the sound of a gun being cocked behind him, and he carefully turned to look at the very nervous but still determined police officer that was standing there. The man’s hand was trembling, but his lips were pressed together in a narrow line.

“Don’t know who you are but hands up,” the policeman said, his voice trembling only slightly. “No funny business now. Sheriff Rumsford will have some questions for you.”

“I am a Priest of Rathma,” Sebastian stated even as he slowly raised his hands. It would be child’s play to take out this one and be on his way, but the man had done nothing to warrant such a response from Sebastian. “I have been following the ones who have disturbed the Balance and laying those they roused back to their slumber.”

Some iron seemed to appear in the man’s spine as his hand steadied slightly. “Don’t know ‘bout any priests, but you’re doing funny stuff in the graveyard. That’s enough for me to take you in.”

Briefly closing his eyes, Sebastian gestured to his car. “May I at least lock my vehicle? I have my personal possessions inside and don’t wish for them to go missing.”

The man shook his head again and gestured towards the jeep that was parked a bit farther off. Sebastian realized that he must have been greatly distracted by his task to not hear him drive up. “Put your hands on the hood an’ leave ‘em there,” the policeman ordered. “Once I know you won’t be doing anything, I’ll lock your ride up before having it towed to the station.”

Realizing there was nothing he could do, Sebastian slowly walked over to the jeep and leaned against the hood, his hands curled around the warm metal. He heard the policeman walk up behind him before his arms were twisted behind his back and secured with metal cuffs that seemed to spark against his skin, warning him of possible consequences should he attempt to use his abilities while the metal encircled his wrists.

He was shoved into the back of the jeep before the door was slammed shut, and Sebastian managed to pull himself upright to discover there were metal bars all around him inscribed with glyphs that looked almost holy in a strange way. Any attempt to read them had his eyes drifting away, almost skipping from one glyph to the next with no understanding of the previous one.

Sighing, he twisted to wedge himself in the corner as he realized that he was probably in for a long night. Sheriff Rumsford undoubtedly had a busy night due to the raised cemetery and there was no telling when he would get around to talking with Sebastian. On the bright side, Sebastian would get a chance to rest even if it was only in a cell. Maybe one of the guards would be nice enough to loan him some paper and a pencil so he might record what he had gained from his scrying before he forgot the important parts. He might even be able to figure out why those particular corpses were harvested by Azar Javid and Adria as well as who she spoke of when she mentioned  _ Him _ .

“What are you planning?” he muttered, turning to gaze out the batted window where the bonfire had been. He had information but he didn’t know what the picture he was trying to piece together was due to ignorance of the main players. He really wished his master hadn’t been one of those who had bought the rest of them time because Sebastian was wondering if he was the right person for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this ended abruptly, but I couldn't figure out how exactly to end it. It was being a bit stubborn, but hopefully the next chapter will come a bit more smoothly.


End file.
